There’s a very old Jewish story about a woman who’d pretty much had it up to here with her life. It seemed she had nothing but tzuris and couldn’t find a way through the mess. So she went to see her rabbi. The woman spilled out every drop of her woeful tale: her marriage was shaky, her children ungrateful, her job unrewarding, and her health unsatisfactory. The rabbi offered the woman a solution. Walk the width and breadth of our town. Find someone whose life you admire, whose troubles you would exchange for your own, then come back to me and I’ll make the switch. Thanking the rabbi (and oddly, never once thinking this was weird), she headed straight for the home of the wealthiest person in town. His life was perfect. Productive career. Well-behaved children. Good-looking too! But when she looked closely, she saw a house filled with despair: alcoholism, domestic abuse, frightened but resentful children. No way would she trade her troubles for these. As the woman moved from house to house, she discovered that no home was without its challenge, no family free from some tribulation. She returned to the rabbi and thanked him for his offer but, no, she would be keeping her own life and her own difficulties. And with new perspective, she returned home. Did she never fret about the imperfections of her existence? No. But from that day on, she could remind herself that everyone’s life faces challenge. And with that, she lived mostly happily mostly ever after.

You know what I don’t like about this story? Even though the woman learned an important lesson about success and happiness, her experiences left her unmoved and unresponsive to the others whom she’d encountered. Frankly, this Jewish story doesn’t seem very Jewish to me. After all, are we not the people whom God instructed, “You shall love your neighbor as yourself” rather than “You shall feel better than your neighbor about yourself”? And Hillel not the famed rabbi who insisted that while we must indeed care for ourselves (“If I am not for myself, who will be for me?”), did he not immediately follow that teaching with, “But if I am only for myself, what am I?”

Ours is a tradition of empathy (of feeling the pain of others) and of action (of taking needed steps to help alleviate another’s pain). Which is why our biblical prophets are so dear to us. When Isaiah calls us to feed the hungry, Jeremiah to plead the case of the poor and needy, and Amos to let justice roll down like waters, these are the teachings that have shaped the generations of our people, the Jewish directives that have guided us down the paths which we walk.

So on this weekend that honors the life and legacy of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr,, it’s not hard to equate Dr. King with the great biblical prophets. Only moments ago, we heard his immortal words in Washington, “I have a dream that one day … the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slave owners will be able to sit down together at the table of brotherhood. […] I have a dream that one day … little black boys and black girls will be able to join hands with little white boys and white girls as sisters and brothers.”

Dr. King’s message always was that we should step forward to advocate for each other. Not just for ourselves. And not just for those who look like us. That’s why “Black Lives Matter.” It’s not that all lives don’t matter; they do. But African-Americans are being brutalized and killed by some who have been charged with protecting us. Now is the time for us to stand with them. We must all stand together. That’s what our Jewish tradition has taught us. That’s what good people do. That’s what a mensch does.

A couple of weeks ago, there was an antisemitic incident in our area. Six swastikas and the word “Jews” were spray-painted on a home that was also pelted with eggs. The Jewish community spoke out, as it should. I was talking with Rabbi Mara Young about this and we both expressed appreciation, and gratitude, that we live in a time where injustice is something we can all face head-on, together. We need no longer remain quiet, hoping that bigotry will just go away, knowing that it won’t. Today, we can speak out. We don’t always do so, but we can. Jews and non-Jews standing side-by-side, neighbor with neighbor, to condemn this hurtful behavior. This time, it’s “Jewish Lives Matter.”

Is this not the very lesson that Dr. King wanted us to learn? To embrace difference, to celebrate it, and to protect it. To build a world where all lives truly matter. And to get there by proclaiming as loudly as we can, from the highest mountains, that black lives matter, Jewish lives matter, Syrian lives matter, immigrant lives matter, Muslim lives matter.

I want to share with you a beautiful video that was released earlier this week. You’ve probably heard of The Maccabeats. They’ve been making all those great a cappella Hanukkah videos of the past few years. Natural 7 is a black a cappella group that joined with The Maccabeats to record a James Taylor tune entitled “Shed a Little Light.” It’s a Martin Luther King Day message. It’s a Jewish message. It’s a human message for us all.

Give it a listen, then come back and read the end of this piece …

“We are bound together in our desire to see the world become a place in which our children can grow free and strong.” That’s Dr. King’s message. That’s the message our ancestors received when they stood at Mount Sinai. That’s the message our prophets tried to remind later generations when they faltered in their commitment to the well-being of all and spent too much time and energy looking only after themselves.

A learned rabbi once asked his students how they could tell when the night had ended and day had begun. “Could it be,” said one student, “when you can see an animal in the distance and tell if it is a sheep or a dog?” “No,” answered the rabbi. Another asked, “Is it when you can look at a distant tree and tell if it is a fig tree or a peach tree? “No,” answered the rabbi. “The night has ended and day has begun … when you can look upon the face of any man or woman, and see that it is your brother or sister. Because if you cannot see this, it is still night.”

Eloheinu v’elohei avoteinu v’imoteinu, dear God, God of our ancestors, God of all humankind, we are forever grateful that You gave to us these precious and sacred gifts of empathy, kindness and compassion. Understanding that none are immune from life’s troubles, may we use these gifts to bring great good into our world. May we not stand by idly when another bleeds. May we rise and be counted when our community needs us. May we rise and be counted when someone else’s community needs us. May we appreciate not only what we have, but what others lack. And may we look upon the face of every man and woman and see that he is our brother, she our sister.

Let the ties between us shed a little light on everybody. Bound together by the task that stands before us, let us travel that road together, and welcome a new day for all.

Ken yehi ratzon … may these words be worthy of coming true.

These words were presented on Shabbat Vayera (Fri, Oct 30, 2015) as part of “Throwback Shabbat: The 60s and 70s,” a 50th anniversary celebration of Woodlands Community Temple.

Beginning in December of 2010, the world watched with extravagant hope as the Arab Spring protests brought with them the possibility for democracy taking root across the Middle East. While Tunisia has succeeded in adopting a new constitution and electing a parliament, by the spring of 2011 Syria had plummeted into civil war. In the north, the Free Syrian Army receives support from the U.S., to the east ISIS continues its fanatical drive, elsewhere other armies have sprung up, while the Syrian army itself, backed by Russia, Iran and Iraq, attempts to battle them all.

Syrian children at a refugee camp in Jordan.

As of September, the civil war has created more than four million refugees seeking safety and asylum elsewhere. Most are in Turkey, Lebanon, Jordan and Iraq while thousands have fled to more-distant countries. Turkey has the greatest number of refugees – 2.1 million. The European Union has approved a plan to take in 120,000 refugees. Israel, always in a tenuous and even precarious relationship with Syria, has chosen to send humanitarian aid by way of Jordan. And the United States has pledged billions in humanitarian aid and 100,000 entrance visas.

I’ll come back to this, but first I want to take a look backward with you, to the year 1979. Still a young congregation, in 1979 Woodlands had some 300 families, 30 families on the waiting list, 400 kids in the religious school, a six-year-old sanctuary (the one we knocked down thirteen years ago), and a plan to renovate the old building by bringing all offices downstairs from the second floor, creating seven classrooms upstairs, expanding the Sanctuary to provide an office for the Cantor and, underneath the Sanctuary, a Youth Lounge. Things don’t always work out as planned.

Notable events from around the world in 1979 include: the U.S. resumed full diplomatic relations with China, Ohio agreed to compensate the families of those who were injured and died in the Kent State shootings, the Shah fled and the Ayatollah rose to power in Iran, Anwar Sadat and Menachem Begin shook hands and signed a peace treaty between Egypt and Israel, the Soviet Union invaded Afghanistan, and McDonald’s introduced the Happy Meal.

35 Vietnamese refugees being rescued 350 miles NE of Vietnam after 8 days at sea.

A few years earlier, in 1975, President Gerald Ford had declared the end of the Vietnam War as Saigon fell to the North Vietnamese and Communist rule. From then until 1995, nearly 800,000 South Vietnamese refugees fled by boat, seeking political asylum throughout Southeast Asia. By 1978 and 1979, their numbers had grown so large that nearby borders were closed and an international humanitarian crisis began. Western nations cracked open their doors and over time 200,000 of these “boat people” came to the United States.

In 1979, one of those families – Kim Ly Huynh and three of her children – came to us. Here’s how it happened.

Then rabbi of Woodlands, Peter Rubinstein, had reached out to HIAS (the Hebrew Immigrant Aid Society). HIAS had originally assisted Jewish families fleeing 19th century persecution in Russia and Eastern Europe, working out of Ellis Island and the Lower East Side to resettle newly-arrived Jewish immigrants. Toward the end of the 20th century, HIAS was expanding their efforts to include assistance for non-Jewish refugees in the aftermath of conflicts in Afghanistan, Bosnia, Czechoslovakia, Haiti, Iran, Morocco, Tunisia and many more. Vietnam was on their list.

Peter signed us up to assist with the boat people and work was to begin a month or two down the road. But a call came in that very same day announcing that a family was in the air and was soon to arrive at JFK airport. Details are murky, but corroborating reports place Gerry Weingast at the airport to pick them up. Gerry drove Kim Ly, the mom, along with three of her children – Nganh (her daughter), Tich-Ha and Tich-Boi (the two boys) – to the home of Amy and Morry Stein, who ran Camp Echo Lake and therefore (or so Amy tells me) Peter felt they were uniquely qualified to bring a family into their home. It was supposed to just be for a weekend while housing was secured for them elsewhere. But Amy felt a powerful surge of duty and mitzvah, and persuaded her family to keep the Huynhs with them for six months. Amy’s thinking was that Kim Ly and her children had much to learn and it would be easier with the stability of one place to stay and an American family to guide them along the way.

Of course, the Steins were in no way alone in this monumental project. The entire congregation got involved, donating time, goods and services to assist the Huynhs. Morry made passionate appeals to the congregation. Irwin Miller, Mel Oppenheim, Don Moskovitz and Stephen Stein all provided much-needed dental services, as well as heroic efforts to keep these otherwise incredibly well-behaved children from screaming their heads off. Ron Reiss helped them find an apartment. Joel Walker served as project leader, providing legal services as well as a steady, patient and unflappable presence in their lives. In many respects, Joel became a surrogate father. Iris and Nat Adler arranged for a different temple family to host the Huynhs each night for dinner, and for weekend activities to keep them busy and to help acclimate them to American life. Nat helped with taxes. Eileen Stein became Kim Ly’s friend and confidant, and her entire family became the Huynh’s extended family.

Of course, once an apartment was secured, Woodlands fell all over itself contributing furnishings and supplies so that the Huynhs could begin their new life in earnest.

The kids were enrolled in area schools, including Rye Country Day and the White Plains school. They were sent to summer camp: Tich-ha and Tick-boi to Echo Lake, others went elsewhere. Nganh loved walking Amy and Morry’s dog Max who, in return, came to love Nganh. And Kim Ly went to night school, learning English and earning a license in cosmetology.

Thus, the early years of their new lives moved forward.

Down the road something quite surprising happened. Because of the language barrier, no one originally knew that Kim Ly had a fourth child. Tich-duong, the eldest and the one in whom their original hopes for survival had been invested, was the first to leave Vietnam, sent by his parents with a gold bar and a close family friend to seek refuge in Hong Kong. Relieved of the gold, Tich-duong was abandoned in Hong Kong and forced to survive on his own. But survive he did. And when temple members learned of Tich-duong’s existence, they jumped into action, working with HIAS to try and rescue this child. Andy Block, who was working for Citibank, reached out to the affiliate there. Tich-duong was found, and brought to America for a reunion with his family. Amazingly, as he stepped off the plane to greet his family and soon-to-be new friends, he brought gifts with him. This one had the knack for survival.

In time, the children grew into adulthood and built lives of their own. Nganh attended college, earning a PhD in Biology & Biomedical Sciences from Virginia Commonwealth University. Tich-ha attended Pace University and completed his degree at Westchester Community College. Tich-duong attended Skidmore College. And Tich-boi went to Brandeis where he earned a BA in biochemistry and biology.

Today, Nganh works for the U.S. Patent Office in Washington, DC. Tich-ha is a realtor here in New York and has two kids of his own. Tich-boi and Tich-duong are both IT guys. Tich-boi lives in Boston and has a 5½-year-old child named Jacob who loves to read, especially “Magic School Bus,” and adores playing with the iPad. Tich-duong works for a mutual fund company in Connecticut.

Eventually, Tich-duong bought the White Plains apartment for his mom so she’ll never have to worry about a place to live ever again. Today, Kim Ly owns a nail salon in Elmsford and also works as a crossing guard in White Plains. All of them are United States citizens.

Kim Ly’s husband never made it out of Vietnam. He died there.

As the family became increasingly independent, the temple’s involvement in their lives lessened. The Chai Fund, which had been established to raise money to help the Huynhs, was repurposed a few years ago as the name for our General Fund. The Steins, the Adlers and Amy Stein became and remain the closest of friends, and they remain in touch with the Huynhs to this day.

Tich-boi, Nganh, Jacob & Kim Ly (circa 2013)

Peter wrote me the following: “In many ways we got back from the family more than we could ever give. It was beyond saving life. It was saving a family. It was enacting the Jewish values about which we always talk but rarely engage so fully. It was watching heroic members of Woodlands putting themselves out beyond expectation or compare. It was about a synagogue realizing the fulfillment of a mission, the core of their identity, the blessing of our nation and our faith. The Hyunhs helped us become a greater, more loving and caring and noble family.”

In this 50th year of our temple’s life, it is with tremendous pride that we remember all that was done for the Huynh family. We have always strived to be a caring community. Frequently, we demonstrate that through social justice activities, community service projects, and inreach to offer compassion and love for our own. It’s a major part of why we love this place so deeply. And it continues to be a driving force behind temple involvement for so many.

Syrian refugee camp in Bulgaria (Nov 2013).

Which brings me back to the Syrian refugee crisis. With 100,000 visas approved, a whole lot of Syrian families are on their way. Like Peter before me, I reached out to HIAS and asked if we can help. With one-room apartments in Manhattan renting at a minimum of $3000 a month and luxury apartments topping out at $80 million, it should come as no surprise to learn that New York isn’t really where HIAS or any other resettlement organization wants to spend their money. Most of the refugees are headed for Texas, Ohio and Michigan – places they can find homes and futures.

So what can we do? HIAS and others have set the following three goals for themselves. One, to address the needs of the most vulnerable by committing to welcoming 100,000 add’l Syrian refugees into our country. Two, address the needs of refugees in Turkey, Lebanon and Jordan by committing as much humanitarian aid as possible. And three, elevate the Syrian conflict so that it is viewed and responded to by our government as a critical foreign policy issue. This will include petitioning the President to take bold leadership, to engage our member of Congress who will be the ones to decide the funding for assistance.

HIAS and other organizations are asking three things of us. First, to get involved with advocacy efforts that aim to have our nation’s leaders commit resources and immigration visas to saving Syrian lives. Two, finding out if there are any resettling activities in our area and doing what we can – through donations and volunteering – to help. And lastly, signing onto websites like hias.org to donate our dollars in support of their efforts.

There are security issues to be managed in bringing Syrian refugees to the United States. No doubt, our government will be supervising that very closely. Interesting and, admittedly, somewhat off-putting is the notion of us – Jewish men, women and children – extending ourselves to help Syrians, people from a nation that has never brokered a peace with Israel and certainly has a history of treating its Jewish citizens miserably.

But what can we do? The rules of tzedakah and of gemilut hasadim don’t say, “Help someone only if they are your friend.” Judaism teaches us to help anyone in their moment of need.

And this is where I end. Once upon a time, Woodlands Community Temple did what it could to help strangers. In the time since, we have done similar things more times than any of us can count. The question is, this time, when it’s the Syrians, will we step forward to help?

In this week’s parasha, Abraham is sitting at the entrance to his tent when three strangers arrive. He runs to greet them, runs to prepare food for them, and runs to help them feel as comfortable as possible on whatever journey they are taking. Such a wonderful message for us this week. When strangers approach, our ancestors – Abraham and Sara from millennia ago, and the families of this temple from decades ago – opened the flaps of their tent. Opened them wide. And said, “Come in. Naturally, come in.”

Billy

While procrastinating about writing for tonight, I watched what I thought was a pretty extraordinary and wonderful film called The Road Within. Released without much fanfare earlier this year, it’s about three teenagers – one with Tourette Syndrome, one with obsessive compulsive disorder and the third suffering from anorexia – who flee from their residential facility and embark upon the first great journey of their lives. I think what I love about this film is that these three teens, whose medical conditions are typically ones that debilitate an individual’s chance at having any sense of normalcy, set off on a road-trip which not only exacerbates their conditions but liberates them from constant enslavement to those conditions as well. Nothing goes away but, as the characters evolve, each tests the boundaries of what they can achieve in spite of their disability.

We’re finishing up the week of Sukkot, Judaism’s harvest festival and a time during which we wave the lulav, sniff the etrog, and spend time in the sukkah, all to celebrate and express our gratitude for God’s gifts. The ritual for waving the lulav has us do so in six different directions, the purpose of which is to affirm that God’s presence is everywhere, no place is devoid of the Divine.

That’s all well and good when life chugs along without disappointment or pain. And for a while, a lot of us get to live lives like that. But even for the most privileged among us – and by that, I not only mean materially but also physically and emotionally – time comes when we learn our lessons. It may wait til we get old and we learn that old-age hurts; it may come sooner when illness or setback or loss finds us and pushes our lives into a deep hole. But it does come. Eventually, we all learn what it means to live without.

In The Road Within, Vincent, who has Tourette Syndrome, complains, “This <bleep>ing sucks. Can’t I get one <bleep>ing advantage out of this <bleep>ing illness? [My tics] only come when I don’t want them and only in the worst <bleep>ing moments!” But Vincent soon discovers that he can live life, and he can do so with grace, with intelligence, and even with a smile. He may be a fictional character, but I’ve encountered him many times.

Franklin Delano Roosevelt, reelected President so often they had to pass a law to keep that from happening again, was paralyzed from the waist down by polio at the age of 39.

Oprah Winfrey was born in rural Mississippi to an impoverished, teenage single mom. She was raped at the age of nine, pregnant at 14, and lost a son during infancy.

Sylvester Stallone was a forceps-baby, complications from which resulted in the severing of a nerve that caused paralysis in the lower left side of his face, including parts of his lip, tongue and chin. This is what gave him his famous snarling look as well as slightly slurred speech. Truly, “a legend was born.”

And Marc Zupan, a paralympic Gold medal-winner in wheelchair rugby, he’s rock-climbed, sky-dived, and been a guest at the White House.

We all know someone whose life has been destroyed by something that plagued them. But we also know someone who rose above the worst that life had thrown at them, and prevailed.

In the Talmud (Sukkah 23a), we’re taught that one may use an elephant as one of the walls of our sukkah. An interesting argument occurs there: “If he used an animal as a wall of the sukkah, Rabbi Meir declares it invalid and Rabbi Judah valid, for Rabbi Meir was wont to say, “Whatever contains the breath of life can be made neither a wall for a sukkah nor a side-post for an alley, nor boards around wells, nor a covering stone for a grave. In the name of Rabbi Jose the Galilean they said, “Nor may a bill of divorcement be written upon it.”

Pretty outrageous stuff, right? But it begs the question why one would even consider using an animal in any of these circumstances. Accusations of exploitation and mistreatment aside, I can imagine someone justifying this because they simply have no other options. And before you start yelling at me that no circumstances can justify mistreating animals, I am inclined to agree. But as often occurs in the Talmud, what they’re speaking about may not be what they’re speaking about.

Sukkot, as I’ve mentioned, is our gratitude holiday, our Thanksgiving. And much as we Americans consider it a fairly sacred national observance to prepare turkey and all the fixings, building a sukkah is the same kind of sacred (in this case, religious) observance for Sukkot. But if for Thanksgiving you can’t afford a turkey, what then? Families try to figure out some way to make Thanksgiving happen, whether it’s getting a turkey through the local food pantry or serving bowls of cereal because that’s all you’ve got and Thanksgiving needs to happen so cereal it is. The issue here, of course, is not Thanksgiving and it’s not the bowl of cereal; it’s continuing food-insecurity in America. When we hear about a family serving cereal for Thanksgiving, or even when we drop off our turkeys here at Woodlands for Hudson Valley Community Services to distribute to families living with HIV or AIDS, our minds (and our hearts) need to go to that next place, that next question: What do I do about the fact that there are people living in my community (in Westchester, for God’s sake!) who have nothing but cereal, or nothing at all, to serve at any meal in their home?

That’s what Sukkot is all about. And what that elephant holding up a sukkah is all about. If we can understand the blessings present in our own lives, then perhaps we can better see and respond to the lack of blessing in other people’s lives. A well-known Hasidic story has a rabbi imploring a very wealthy person to stop limiting their meals to bread and butter alone. “If you can survive on only bread and butter,” says the rabbi, “will you then assume the poor can survive by eating rocks?” Where we have blessing, our appreciation of those blessings can help ensure we don’t miss the blessing that is missing from other people’s lives.

Tonight, we’ve heard from five congregants who have shared their thoughts about the challenge of living these imperfect lives of ours and, despite the difficulties encountered along the way, the desire to (and sometimes, the success at) coaxing a sense of beauty and abundance right there in the middle of it all. It inspires me to hear from fellow journeyers that others are figuring how to feel grateful for life’s goodnesses even while struggling with its adversity.

Earlier this evening, before the Silent Prayer, we read the words of Noah benShea, reminding us that during our efforts to “build a fire” in our lives, we sometimes have to scratch at the ground “hoping to find the coals of another’s fire,” but all we come across are ashes. While some will crumble in despair because no light, no warmth remains, others will be comforted by their understanding that “somebody else has bent to build a fire,” “somebody else has carried on.” That too can be a blessing.

When my son Jonah died at the age of 19, it felt for a while as if my life was over. I was emptied out, broken-hearted and irretrievably lost. In time, however, I began to remember all the goodness that had been Jonah’s life, his antics, his energy, his kindness. And though I will never cease missing him, I will scratch at the ashes on the ground, forever grateful that I got nineteen amazing years to experience him and to love him. Each Sukkot, I remember how he always jumped in to help us build our family sukkah. His spirit was delightful, uplifting and inspiring.

I won’t say I’ve mastered the art of expressing gratefulness for life’s bounty even when that bounty eludes us, but I’ve definitely gotten better at it. And while unfortunately life provides each of us with opportunities to practice gratitude-amidst-hardship, it also showers us with an embarrassing abundance of riches-without-any-cost-other-than-being-human, for which I will always be practicing my thank you’s.

The traditional greeting during Sukkot is “Moadim l’simkha,” which means something like, “May the moments in your life always place you on a path that brings you to a deep, abiding sense of joy.”

Moadim l’simkha,
Billy

P.S. Thank you, Joshua Spodek, for writing about People Who Succeeded Despite Adversity.

And just in case you’d like to read a bit more, here’s a poem written by W.S. Merwin, an American poet who was particularly prolific during the 60s anti-war movement. He lives in New York City and is 88 years old. This is entitled “Thanks.”

Listen
with the night falling we are saying thank you
we are stopping on the bridges to bow from the railings
we are running out of the glass rooms
with our mouths full of food to look at the sky
and say thank you
we are standing by the water thanking it
smiling by the windows looking out
in our directions

back from a series of hospitals back from a mugging
after funerals we are saying thank you
after the news of the dead
whether or not we knew them we are saying thank you

over telephones we are saying thank you
in doorways and in the backs of cars and in elevators
remembering wars and the police at the door
and the beatings on stairs we are saying thank you
in the banks we are saying thank you
in the faces of the officials and the rich
and of all who will never change
we go on saying thank you thank you

with the animals dying around us
our lost feelings we are saying thank you
with the forests falling faster than the minutes
of our lives we are saying thank you
with the words going out like cells of a brain
with the cities growing over us
we are saying thank you faster and faster
with nobody listening we are saying thank you
we are saying thank you and waving
dark though it is

To which I add Anne Frank’s immortal words, “In spite of everything.”

W.S. Merwin’s poem is published in Migration: New & Selected Poems (Copper Canyon Press, 2005).

The 19th century German poet and essayist Heinrich Heine once wrote, “All I ask is [for] a simple cottage, a decent bed, good food, some flowers in front of my window and a few trees beside my door. Then if God wanted to make me wholly happy, He would let me enjoy the spectacle of six or seven of my enemies dangling from those trees. I would forgive them all wrongs they have done me – forgive them from the bottom of my heart, for we must forgive our enemies. But not until they are hanged!” (as quoted in Edge-Tools of Speech,1899, Maturin Ballou, p. 169)

‘Tis the season. In a little more than a week, we’ll enter our tent, open our makhzorim, and begin our annual period of reflection and contrition, with the goal of teshuvah, of recalibrating our hearts that we might become more compassionate – to others and to ourselves – in the New Year ahead.

I’m not at all clear how these High Holy Days actually affect us. I do, every now and then, encounter someone who, prior to the arrival of Rosh Hashanah, offers me an apology for anything he might have said or done that hurt or offended me. But I’m not impressed by that. I don’t think that’s teshuvah at all. There’s no turning, no recalibrating, going on because there’s no knowledge of having done anything wrong. “If I’ve done something, I’m sorry”? Better to find one person we know we’ve been unkind to and put our New Year’s energy into fixing that one relationship. It takes courage to confront someone we’ve wronged, to apologize when we know we’ve behaved poorly. To issue some blanket memo to try and cover our bases neither warms the heart of the person we have wronged, nor teaches us any lesson about ourselves … except maybe that we don’t care enough to really figure out where we’ve fallen short.

The upcoming Y’mei Aseret Teshuvah, the Ten Days of Turning from Rosh Hashanah through Yom Kippur, are not meant to be easy. But for most of us, that’s pretty much what they are. Our greatest challenge is to make it through the fast on Yom Kippur. I’m not sure that many of us really do the difficult soul-searching that’s demanded by the texts in our makhzor. I’m not sure we do the real forgiving that these High Holy Days challenge us to do.

Me and my big brother

A few weeks ago, I spoke about my brother Jimmy and how he’s my hero. I joked about the scar he’d given me when I was six and he was eight and he’d chased me through our house threatening to smash a wet noodle in my hair and I ended up crashing through the plate glass of our front door. When, some fifty years later, I learned that he still feels guilty about that, I shared with you how I take full advantage of his guilt which, most recently, resulted in his coming up from Florida and repairing just about every broken hinge, light and damaged wall in my home.

The reality … is that I forgave him a long time ago. But that was easy. He’s my big brother. And I worship him. And adore him. I could never hold a grudge against him.

Unfortunately, it gets easier where others are concerned.

Rabbi Nakhman of Bratslav, the late-18th century founder of the Bratslav hasidic community in the Ukraine, noticed how people hold grudges, how our anger can cause us to push someone completely away and out of our lives without any interest in repairing the rift but, instead, concluding there is nothing redeeming in that person and there is no value in trying to make amends.

To try and counter such behavior, Reb Nakhman wrote: “[For] even someone who is completely wicked, one must search and find in him some little bit of goodness, because within that one little part of him, there is no wickedness.”

When I first read this, I was thinking of truly evil people like Caligula or Hitler. With the likes of such mad men, it’s easy to write them off as monsters. It hadn’t occurred to me that, when we’re angry at someone who’s not a Hitler, we can paint that person as if they are completely awful, possessing no redemptive features whatsoever. In our saner, more sanguine, moments, we understand we’re not talking about Caligula; it’s just that idiot Bob from work, or my dumb neighbor, or my sibling with whom I haven’t spoken in fifteen years.

Reb Nakhman urges that we: “find in him a little bit of good, judge him on the side of merit, and in this way, raise him up and enable him to turn in teshuvah.”

I may be reading this wrong. But the teshuvah here, the turning, I don’t think it’s Bob’s. It’s ours. Yours and mine. When we’re furious at someone, we need to find a tiny crack in the armor we’ve built around that other person – armor that shows (and defends) only what we hate about them. Reb Nakhman teaches that we need to see the whole person, not just the parts we resent. We need to come to understand that, despite our brilliantly deduced conclusions, people are salvageable.

Unlike my attitude toward drivers who don’t use their turn signal, and I wish horrible things upon them because of the danger they create by not letting other drivers know their intentions and therefore reduce our ability to react safely to an unsafe moment on the road. At those moments, it could be Malala Yousafai and I wouldn’t be able to see a single redemptive quality in her.

Reb Nakhman says about the one we resent, that we should ask ourselves: “How is it possible that she never fulfilled a single mitzvah or good deed in all her days?” Reb Nakhman teaches that when we push ourselves to look for the goodness that resides somewhere inside each one of us – even my annoying neighbor who blows his leaves at 6:30 on a weekend morning – when we succeed in finding those redeeming qualities, then redemption can begin. Our redemption.

Despite my behavior behind the wheel, sometimes I’m amazed at my capacity to forgive. My brain continues to argue with me, “Are you kidding?” it shouts. “You’re going to let them off the hook for what they did to you!?”

And my answer is: Yes. I am. Because life is a whole lot bigger than stupid, annoying, hurtful moments. I’ve got better things to do with my time. Life is far too short to spend it pursuing resentment and rejection.

Shlomo Carlebach, who’d fled the Nazis as a young man, was once asked how he could go back to Austria and Germany to perform. “Don’t you hate them?” he was asked. Carlebach responded, “If I had two souls, I’d devote one to hating them. But since I have only one, I don’t want to waste it on hating.”

Rabbi Rami Shapiro challenges us to view Rosh Hashanah as “head-changing day.” He derives this from “head” (rosh), and “changing” (shay-nah, a variation on HaShanah).

“You can’t have a new year with an old head,” he writes. “So if you want a new year, you are going to need to get a new head. A new head is a story-free head. Your stories define you. If your stories are positive and loving, then you are [positive] and loving. If your stories are negative and fearful, then you are [negative and fearful].”

Rabbi Shapiro encourages us to rewrite our stories. To focus on truth. And to focus on compassion. To cast away the stories that frustrate us, that anger us, that make us turn away from others.

It is the 21st day of Elul. Soon we will gather for our Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur heshbon nefesh, our annual soul-searching. May the year 5776 be the one in which we truly master the art of teshuvah. May we turn our spirits toward You, God, by turning them away from bitterness, resentment and hatred. May these Ten Days of Turning bring real change. To our heads, to our hearts, to our spirits. And may we share together in a New Year that is filled to overflowing with kindness, tolerance, understanding, radical inclusion, and love.

Billy

Holmes and Watson go on a camping trip. After dinner and a bottle of wine, they lie down for the night and go to sleep. Some hours later, Holmes wakes up and nudges his faithful friend. “Watson, look up at the sky and tell me what you see.”

Watson replies, “I see millions of stars.”

Holmes: “What does that tell you?”

Watson ponders this for a moment and then responds, “Astronomically, it tells me that there are millions of galaxies and potentially billions of planets. Astrologically, I observe that Saturn is in Leo. Horologically, I deduce that the time is approximately a quarter past three. Theologically, I can see that God is all-powerful and that we are small and insignificant. Meteorologically, I suspect we will have a beautiful day tomorrow. What does it tell you, Holmes?”

Holmes is silent for a minute, and then speaks. “Watson, you idiot. Someone has stolen our tent!”

How unlikely an honor it is that we have been created at all, that we are living life, and that we are living it as a next chapter in the continuing story of the Big Bang.

While, from time to time, it becomes necessary to focus on minute details of our individual stories in order to survive, it is our connection to the meta-story of life that I’ll be writing about – how big we are, even as an infinitesimally small piece of the universe.

Just the other day, someone asked me not to jinx them by saying so-and-so. I looked at them incredulously, which a rabbi really ought not do, but I was stunned to witness firsthand that superstition is alive and well in the 21st century.

A study that was published in the Journal of Experimental Psychology found that when college students were asked to say out loud that they would definitely not get into a car accident this winter, follow-up questioning ascertained that they definitely thought it more likely that they would. When subsequently asked to “knock on wood” on a table in front of them, the effects of the jinx were believed to have been reversed; these students were no more likely to think they would get into an accident than those who hadn’t jinxed themselves in the first place.

We humans, no matter how well-educated we are, are very reluctant to let go of our primordial fears. Not only do we hang onto to age-old superstitious beliefs – black cats crossing our path, walking beneath a ladder – we’re creating new ones all the time: sports players who pitch or bat well at a game, then try to maintain their success by wearing or doing some repeated act for each subsequent game; candy consumers who avoid certain M&M colors believing they might cause illness or the risk of terrorist attack. There is no end to our beliefs in supernatural forces acting on our natural world.

Perhaps the best-known act of superstition is prayer. The ancient Israelites believed that Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur were necessary preliminaries leading up to the most important prayer-day of their year: Sukkot, during which they prayed to God for rain. In a few weeks, we’ll gather in our tent and, while praying for no rain during the High Holy Days, many of us will ask God to forgive us for our sins from the previous year. Along the way, we may ask for a few boons as well: healing for a loved one, a raise at work, maybe even a curse or two for our annoying neighbors.

Not infrequently I’m informed that someone no longer believes in prayer because God never seems to be listening; that is, God doesn’t grant the requested favor. But that’s not the main purpose of prayer – not in the Jewish tradition, not in any religious tradition.

Do you know the story about the man who is sitting at his wife’s bedside at an out-of-town hospital they have unfortunately had to come to while traveling? A local rabbi invites the man to attend his synagogue while he’s in town, to which the man responds, “Rabbi, if I have anything to ask of God, I can do that right here.”

Certainly when our loved ones are not well, we pray for their recovery. And we would welcome God’s altering the course of nature, if necessary, to grant our loved one a miracle. But traditional prayer is neither about our asks nor the granting of miracles. Prayer is about acknowledging the magnificence of life and expressing thanks that we’re part of it. Rather than bending God’s will to our own (a fairly presumptuous thing to do), prayer encourages us to align our desires with God’s. The end of the hospital story is the rabbi saying to the man, “Well, perhaps God has something to ask of you.” The universe is huge, infinite. Prayer expresses our gratitude and our awe at how lucky we are to be part of it. Especially in light of the improbability of life existing on earth in the first place.

In the earliest chapters of earth’s history, there was no oxygen in our atmosphere. The sun’s rays did create a bit of oxygen by splitting it off from carbon dioxide and other molecules, but the oxygen molecules quickly disappeared when they formed bonds with others, transforming into compounds like rust and hydrogen peroxide. It wasn’t until some three billion years ago, when microbes evolved the ability to perform photosynthesis, that oxygen became abundant, and you and I became possible.

Prayer is the human response to that unlikely event and the subsequent evolution that has brought you, me and everything we love into existence.

This past Monday, I stood at the graveside of a congregant’s grandmother as we laid to rest the sacred vessel in which she had lived her life. Before we left the cemetery, we joined together in reciting Kaddish. As always, I shared with those gathered that their isn’t a single word in the Kaddish prayer about death. Kaddish is a grand poem in which we proclaim two truths: the first, that life is an extraordinary gift to each of us; and the second, that the appropriate response to that gift is thanks. With Kaddish, we thank God for a universe in which life is possible, and how grateful we are for having shared in the life of this person whom we have loved and whom we now return to the infinite ocean of life from which we all emerged.

On Rosh Hashanah morning, shortly after we’ve first opened the pages of our new High Holy Days makhzor, Mishkan HaNefesh, we will read these words:

“My Lord is not a shepherd and I am not His sheep. No monarch greedy for my praise is worthy of my prayers. Oneness that exploded into cosmos, spun the double helix over eons of evolution, made all things beautiful in their time, gave me intellect and initiative to envision Oneness: a single chain of life, a single human family, and myself one part — responsible and responsive, member of a people who dreamed of Oneness, worked and suffered for its sake, and still lives in service to that Unity: This I honor. This I hold sacred.”

Now that’s prayer. In a world whose mechanics we increasingly understand, the awesomeness of the Force responsible for its existence only grows more impressive. While I am quite sure you and I will continue to knock on wood when someone we love is in peril, let us try and remember how great the universe is, and to never withhold our profound thankfulness for having the magnificent honor of becoming one tiny share of that infinite magnificence.

As we continue our Elul preparation for the upcoming Days of Awe, let us remember that while we are but dust and ashes, we are also but a little lower than angels.

Radiolab is a nationally syndicated radio program produced by WNYC that focuses on topics of scientific and philosophical nature. In the episode, “Elements,” they focused on a young woman diagnosed as having bipolar disorder and whose successful treatment involved the administration of three tablets of a salt called lithium. Besides how effective lithium is in treating the young woman’s condition, the program explores the fundamental, essential character of the drug; lithium is an element, an atom, not a complex drug – it appears on the Periodic Table of Elements and has been around since the Big Bang.

Ben Lilly, who writes about psychiatric drugs, found this to be a “profound reminder that the forces that shape everything in the universe are the same as the forces that are shaping who we are.”

Eloheinu v’Elohei avoteinu v’imoteinu … dear God and God of our ancestors …

How did we manage to wind up on the invitation list to this cosmic gathering? Why have You included us as part of the continuing story of the Big Bang and Creation? We may never know. But thank You – for whatever it was You did to get us in the door.

May we live our lives in such a way as to be worthy of being part of it all.

Billy

Me and my big brother (well, 1 of 4 anyway)

My brother Jimmy came up from Florida last week to spend time with me and my family. Jimmy is number five of the six Dreskin children. I’m number six. We’re two years apart. Much of my childhood was spent fending off attacks – both physical and psychological – from Jimmy. When I was six, he sent me flying through our all-glass front door bestowing upon me a wrist-to-elbow scar that has been ever-so-useful, to this day, in prompting his guilt-ridden conscience to do pretty much anything I ask of him.

So, for seven days this past week, Jimmy fixed things around my house. And since he used to build houses for a living, he can pretty much fix anything.

But here’s the problem. He fixed things a little too well. Our bathroom door, which used to require powerful effort to move it along the carpet in order to open or close, is now damaging my dresser when I push it too hard and it flies above the carpet only to be stopped by what used to be the beautiful finish of our bedroom furniture. Same with the bathroom mirror. It used to not even close but now, held firmly in place by a strong magnet, my pull to open it sends it careening into the adjacent wall. And then there’s the secret annex, a collection of shelves that is home to many family photographs but whose existence hides a storage space behind which we keep our Shabbat paraphernalia, cookbooks and more. The shelves used to require a rather Herculean effort to lift and simultaneously pull the unit open. Now, thanks to my brother, a simple, gentle tug will access its interior. But since my brain’s neuron-firings haven’t yet learned that, I continue to lift and pull which sends the photographs flying across the room.

I say this all not to complain about my brother. Although that’s always fun. To the contrary, I am in awe of his abilities. And after helplessly standing by as, year after year, more parts of our home whither and atrophy, Jimmy’s prowess at restoring hinges and catches and the like makes him nothing less … than my hero. Ellen’s delight at walking into our kitchen and having a flood of light replace the dim shadows she’s cooked in for two decades is all the reward this husband ever needs.

Which got me thinking about heroes.

We all grow up, I think, with pretty clear ideas of what makes a hero. Heroes save lives. Heroes sometimes sacrifice their own to do that. They certainly put their own welfare last when it comes to helping others. War heroes like Gen. George Washington in the Revolutionary War, Maj. Eddie Rickenbacker in World War I, and Lt. John F. Kennedy in World War II, conjure up magnificent images of brave men risking it all to save others. When 9/11 occurred, firefighters and police officers became our heroes as we watched them run into falling buildings to rescue those trying to get out.

Recently, we have seen heroes work their magic in ending the Ebola outbreak in Africa, aiding victims of the earthquake in Nepal, and fighting the flames of major fires out west. These folks do the work that needs to be done if lives are to be protected, but is work that neither you nor I can nor (probably) would want to do.

Jewish tradition has its heroes too. Noah saved the remnants of global destruction. Abraham risked the wrath of God to challenge the Divine’s decree against Sodom and Gomorrah. Esther knew her place but stepped away from it in order to reverse a king’s edict for genocide. Young David felled the mighty Goliath. And the prophetess Deborah led successful military campaigns against Israel’s enemies, freeing Israel from oppression beneath the yoke of Yavin, king of Canaan.

Tzedek, tzedek tirdof, the Torah teaches us. “Justice, justice you shall pursue.” Paving the way for myriad heroes to arise from our own ranks effecting social change for the better in all corridors of human life.

And so we’ve seen Jews step up and be counted in so many different heroic ways. In 1964, Andrew Goodman gave his life in the struggle for civil rights. In 1952, Dr. Jonas Salk developed the first successful polio vaccine. In 1776, Polish-born American-Jewish businessman Haym Solomon was possibly the prime financier of America’s involvement in the Revolutionary War. In the early 1900s, Julius Rosenwald, co-owner of Sears and Roebuck Company, established a fund that helped build nearly 5000 public schools for America’s black children. Film director, producer and screenwriter Steven Spielberg not only brought us “Schindler’s List,” but, in 1994, created the USC Shoah Foundation Institute which has recorded and preserve testimony from nearly 52,000 Holocaust survivors and other witnesses.

The list goes on and on. And on. And on. And on. Our measly 1/4 of 1% of the world’s population has effected immeasurable change for the better throughout the world.

Had to wander back through time a bit to get all the Dreskin men (and then some) in one photo (my wedding, 1982!)

And then there’s you and me. During his week with us, Jimmy was telling me how he’d done nothing of importance with his life. It’s a Dreskin trait, especially among the Dreskin men. My father, a much-loved physician in Cincinnati, always lamented that he’d not won a Nobel Prize in medicine. As a kid, Jimmy had dreamed of becoming a nuclear physicist. While he had the brains for it, he lacked the ability to sit still and do the hard studying to get there. And me? I look at rabbis like Gordon Tucker in White Plains, David Wolpe in Los Angeles, and Rick Jacobs at the URJ, and, like my father, I too lament what I have not become.

Do you suppose I was listening when I said to my brother, “Are you kidding me? Look at your life. Look at the beautiful, loving, giving children you’ve brought into this world. Look at the home you’ve built for them, a space in which they grow, safe and loved. And look at the good you’ve done for so many by making their electricity work, their roofs not leak, their doors and windows open and close, and a thousand other ways that you improve other people’s lives. Believe you me, when you get the lights working or fix the heat in one of the homes you’ve visited, you’re that family’s hero.”

Maybe I’m stretching the definition a bit. I don’t know if we have to risk limb and life in order for others to place us in that superlative category. Sometimes a quiet conversation when someone is troubled can leave that person feeling like their life has just been saved. Even a student who’s got a paper on ancient Greece due in three days and, not knowing how to get the work done, is calmly ushered through by a teacher or a mentor who simply takes the time to help – that’s a hero.

My wife Ellen’s mom is 93 years old. She’s blind and suffers from dementia. Other than that, she’s been nearly as healthy as a horse. But this summer, her body put her through the wringer and it didn’t look like she’d be around much longer. Ellen and her sister Claudia tended to their mom around the clock, sometimes trying to save her life, sometimes just trying to make what appeared to be the end a bit more comfortable. It was exhausting work for them. To me, it was heroic. What a gift, whatever the outcome, that they gave to their mom. A gift of profound love during this late chapter of her life.

Even when the photographs of Pluto began streaming back to earth from three billion miles away this summer, I very proudly made one of them the feature image on my phone, so grateful was I that some team of rocket scientists and computer geeks had figured out how to show us a piece of creation that resides so far away.

I’m pretty enamored of heroes. And I try to stay open to every possibility for meeting new ones.

Hanging in my home is a framed piece by artist Brian Andreas who draws somewhat goofy but delightful cartoons accompanied by pithy words. This one reads: “Most people don’t know that there are angels whose only job is to make sure you don’t get too comfortable and fall asleep and miss your life.” Ellen, one of the wisest people I know, put the Andreas piece on our wall. It reminds us both that the world is an amazing place and that there are equally amazing people living in it. We ought never get so busy nor so preoccupied with ourselves that we can’t find time to be amazed. Hence, the Pluto pictures on my phone.

Kohelet wrote, Ein kol hadash takhat hashamesh … there’s nothing new under the sun. While many read this verse as an excuse to be blase about everything because, after all, we’ve seen it before, Kohelet’s point was quite likely the opposite. Stay awake. Stay alert. The world never stops being amazing. And if you think it has, you’re missing out on the best life has to offer.

To see as heroic the sandwiches a young parent makes for a kindergartner’s first day of school … makes the world a bright, interesting, affirming and wonderful place. To see as heroic the young idealist who licks envelopes so that others can receive and learn about the candidate this kid thinks will be great for our community … warms our hearts and fills us with hope that a new generation is going to do what they can. And yes, to see as heroic the efforts of a big brother who once scarred his bratty kid brother for life and now fixes his doors and cabinets so that they move freely for the first time in years … why not?

To love and appreciate because someone can – you fill in the blank – administer a life-saving drug, cook a nourishing meal, teach a curious child, give a warm, loving embrace, are these not among life’s most spectacular moments? And are these people – you, me, the members of our families, our friends, our neighbors – not performing heroic deeds by simply showing up to life each and every day, doing the same, un-famous things year in and year out, and being loved for it as if we were world-acclaimed celebrities?

My teacher, Rabbi Larry Hoffman, writes about wrinkles and how they are the marks of a life that’s been lived. It’s up to you and me to decide whether it’s been well-lived. But we get credit – lots of credit – for just showing up. True Dreskin that I am, I lament the accomplishments that I haven’t achieved. But then I look at you, at this beautiful, sweet, holy community, and I thank my lucky stars that you believe I have enough to offer that you invited me and my family to move in with you twenty years ago.

Ein kol hadash takhat hashamesh … there’s nothing new under the sun. But we can, and ought to, renew how we look at everything under the sun. It may not be new. But our appreciation of it might be.

I really am in awe of my brother’s abilities to improve the space that a person lives in, to make it lovelier and more functional. Can a million other people do the very same thing? Absolutely. But for the folks who creak front doors he is invited to walk through, Jimmy is the most important of them all.

Someone else will treat the illnesses. Someone else will put out the fires. But for those who are lucky enough to have you and me step into their lives and make a sandwich, explain something confusing, give a hug, even fix a broken light switch – we too can be their heroes.

Let’s just be sure we don’t get too comfortable, fall asleep, and miss out on the excitement.

In 2012, astrophysicist Summer Ash underwent heart surgery to replace a defective aorta. Upon her recovery, Summer discovered that her heart had developed certain acoustic anomalies that resulted in her heartbeat becoming audible to the naked ear. She, and others sitting close to her, could hear the steady beating from inside her chest, not through a stethoscope but from the heart itself.

Through this odd experience, Summer Ash achieved a level of recognition of her heart’s purpose. With her engineer’s brain, she understood the heart as a pump. But as a human being with this unique experience of living with her own audible heartbeat, always, she came to appreciate the work our hearts do to keep us alive, every minute, every day.

A different kind of hero, to be sure. But with the same message, I think … to not miss out on our lives, and to give thanks for the great gifts that are bestowed upon us … every minute, every day.

Billy

In this week’s parasha, Hukkat, it is still the second year after the Israelites’ liberation from Egyptian slavery. They’re still at Mount Sinai receiving instruction from God through Moses. Eventually, the topic of instruction turns to death. As is true with all communities, Israel too must learn how to bury its dead and how to live with loss.

Biblical regulations in the Book of Numbers (chapter 19) stipulate that an Israelite who comes into contact with someone who has died assumes the status of “unclean,” not a physical or moral state-of-being but a ritual one. An “unclean” individual is ritually suspended from participating in Israelite cultic practice for a period of seven days. At week’s end, a specified ritual prepares the individual for reentry to the community. Listen to Numbers 19:17-19 …

Ashes from the fire of cleansing shall be added to fresh water in a vessel. A person who is clean shall take hyssop, dip it in the water, and sprinkle the mixture upon anyone who been touched by a person who has died. They shall do so on the third day and on the seventh day. And by the seventh day, the unclean person shall wash his clothes and bathe in water, and by nightfall he shall be clean.

Our ancestors understood that death affects people deeply. “Business as usual” was not their response. “Bucking up” and “moving on” were not how they coped with loss. Instead, it was time, along with defined acts to move through that time, that was prescribed to assist those in mourning along their path to healing.

Today, you and I can see the continuation of those age-old practices in our own rituals surrounding death. For the week of shiva, we remove ourselves from daily life. We stay at home and, during that time, we tear a ribbon, light a candle, recite Kaddish, and receive support from others. We may not be healed by week’s end. We may only have begun the process of reentry. But at least we’ve started it. And it’s a healthy process. Shiva brings us face-to-face with our loss, and helps us – through prescribed ritual practice – to reenter life and carry on despite the pain of our grief.

And so I’ve been wondering.

Ten days ago, Dylann Roof walked into the Emanuel AME Church in Charleston, South Carolina, spent an hour studying bible with clergy and congregants, and then pulled out a gun and murdered nine men and women between the ages of 26 and 87. On Thursday, their funerals commenced and will continue through next Tuesday, until all nine are buried.

Nine families are mourning their beloved dead. It is likely that these families will, in time, quiet their grief and learn to live life with their loved ones’ memories held close as a perpetual treasure.

But America too is in mourning. We have also lost nine precious lives. We too must travel and, albeit in a different manner from the victims’ families, we must nonetheless navigate the desolate valley of the shadow of death.

Emanuel AME Church, Charleston

We’ve been here before. Columbine High School. Virginia Tech. Fort Hood, Texas. Aurora, Colorado. Sandy Hook Elementary School. Since 1982, there have been at least 70 mass shootings across the country. And their frequency is on the rise.

Here’s what I’ve been wondering about. How do we process this? How do we grieve our fellow Americans’ deaths? How do we carry on?

Past experience tells us that the way we Americans mourn our dead is by spending a period of time sympathizing with the grieving families, expressing outrage that such killings are even possible, turning to our elected officials to do something that will prevent the next shooting from taking place, and then returning to our regular lives when, once again, nothing improves.

It’s not a terrible process, I suppose. As ritual goes. We repeat a number of helpful practices that link us with others who share in our sadness. We take some time to remove ourselves from everyday, unconcerned living. And after a while, we go back to the things we were doing before.

It’s “not a terrible process” because, in actuality, that’s what the period of mourning is all about. When a loved one dies, little changes except that someone we care about is now missing from our lives. We don’t necessarily change anything about the world, but the process helps us, in time, to resume reasonably contented living.

Apparently, that’s been enough for the American people, as well. America remains unchanged after each mass shooting, except for the loss of life and the ensuing grief.

Wouldn’t it be great though if the model of individual grief didn’t satisfy our national family? Wouldn’t it be great if our elected leaders decided that these killings can’t go on, and that something really needs to be done to prevent the next ones from happening? Wouldn’t it be great if Congress said, “We will convene this evening to find a solution to this epidemic, and we will not recess until a solution has been found, voted on and put into action”?

I understand that America is fairly split down the middle in terms of issues of governance. I “get it” that Democrats and Republicans see the world differently. But I happily reference today’s 6-3 Supreme Court ruling on President Obama’s health care law. Sometimes we don’t have to be split down the middle. And assuming that nobody in America wants to see mass killers on the rampage, shouldn’t our leaders be able to work together, agreeing that a solution needs to be found, and then working on one until all sides can come to an agreement?

I don’t know. That was always the America I wanted to be part of. One where dissent of opinion is not only welcomed, but is valued because of the creative process it sparks on the path to solving dilemmas.

As the Charleston nine are laid to rest between now and next Tuesday, my grief will continue. Grief for them, for their bereft loved ones. And grief for a country that lacks the resolve to fix something which everyone agrees needs fixing.

You know, God never wanted a political structure to manage ancient Israel. God didn’t think that having a king was a very good idea. God felt that if we’d just follow the Torah, if we’d just practice the mitzvot, if we’d just be good to each other, everything would be fine. Rituals prescribed for individuals who had died would never have to be applied on a wholesale basis. Economies of scale would never be needed because hinei mah tov u’ma naim … we’d all behold how pleasant it is … shevet akhim gahm yakhad … that men and women are dwelling together … in peace!

Tonight, you and I are Emanuel AME Church. Tonight, their loss is our loss. We cry for them. We cry with them.

How about if, next week, we become America? And as America, we share the loss which took place at the Emanuel AME Church in Charleston, and add this to our national ritual: remembering to do something about it. I beg of you, do more than what America usually does during its moments of national grief. Act. Do something to help things change. Do it with your voice. Do it with your wallet. Do it with your vote.

And then maybe, just maybe, we won’t have to participate in the insane national ritual of grieving like this … again … and again … and yet again.

Ken y’hee rah-tzone.

Billy

Closing Words
Last week, college student Melissa Wishner spoke about helping victims of the earthquake in Nepal. I opened that evening by quoting late-19th century American author, historian and Unitarian minister Edward Everett Hale: “I am only one, but I am one. I can’t do everything, but I can do something. The something I ought to do, I can do. And by the grace of God, I will.”

Eloheynu v’elohey avoteynu v’imoteynu … dear God and God of our ancestors,

Won’t you lend us some of that grace now? We’ll need it, if we hope to rise above that concern-unbolstered-by-action that accompanies so many of our national tragedies. We are grateful and encouraged by today’s landmark Supreme Court ruling that legalizes same-sex marriage nationwide, but we are stymied by the fact that we can’t seem to figure out how to finally learn the way to live side-by-side without consideration of the color of one’s skin.

Show us the answers at the back of book, won’t You? Help us to discover the path to finding constructive responses and solutions. Remind us that none of us are exempt from doing, nor ought we feel helpless to do, something to help find those solutions.

Shabbat shalom.

I was invited to write this piece of ReformJudaism.org where it was published on June 19, 2015. I hope you find it worthwhile reading.

Billy

I did not know that June is LGBT Pride Month. I’m not gay, which may or may not be a valid excuse. That being said, I specifically requested to write this installment of 10 Minutes of Torah. Gay rights is one of the critical issues in these beginning years of the 21st century. I may not be marching down Fifth Avenue on Sunday, June 28, in the Gay Pride Parade, but I’m very well aware that June 28 is also the anniversary of the Stonewall Riots which, in 1969, pretty much ignited the gay liberation movement and the battle for LGBT rights across our nation. It is a battle in which we all, gay and straight, are conscripts.

As a rabbi, it’s been important to stand with my community on issues of vital social concern. I’ve marched in Washington, been arrested in New York City, lobbied my elected representatives, and written endlessly on the challenges facing all who care about justice and compassion in our society.

Sometimes, however, it is normalcy (and the non-events that frequently comprise its blessed existence) that has defined my strongest stands. I learned this from my son Aiden. Now a rising college senior, when Aiden was in high school he joined the school’s Gay-Straight Alliance. He did so simply to stand by his gay friends. It was never a big deal for him, but it was still something he felt was important to do. He did so quietly, without any fanfare and, in doing so (and probably as a complete surprise to himself), made a powerful impact on his dad. To this day, I hold Aiden’s model of action close to my heart: do what’s right, and don’t make a fuss about it.

In the world of LGBT understanding, I have since made these small, but meaningful, adjustments in my life:

1) One night, after a Shabbat Evening Service, Corey Friedlander, a gay member of our temple, approached me and said, “I notice you no longer say ‘husband and wife’ when speaking about marriage. Instead, you’ve begun using the word ‘partners.’ I’m curious as to what brought about the change?” I thought about it a bit and then said to Corey, “The young people who are sitting in the congregation, some of them are engaged in a struggle to figure out their sexuality. If any of them turn out to be gay, and some very likely will, I don’t want them to ever think that their synagogue wasn’t a place where they could feel at home.” It’s not a world-altering effort, but for some teenaged kid? It could be their entire world. If I can help in these small but important ways, that’s what I want to do.

2) In 2010, when some particularly nasty anti-gay activity was taking place in multiple locations across America, the houses of faith in our area came together and published the following simple but powerful ad in our local paper: “We deplore the rage and violence directed at lesbian and gay persons and we welcome these sisters and brothers to live and worship among us.” Five years later, even as life continues to improve and ,yes, normalize for the LGBT community, our temple continues to display that ad at our entrance. It’s a simple but moving gesture that I hope one day will no longer be needed. In the meantime, it quietly affirms that our doors are open wide for all.

3) Corey and I have shared many conversations about the openness and inclusiveness of our synagogue. Ours is not a large temple, so we can’t offer every flavor of programming for every affinity group. On the other hand, we try very hard to be a “community temple” where, as much as possible, we all come together – young and old, married and single, gay and straight – to share our lives and our hopes with each other. We worship together, learn together, perform acts of tikkun olam (compassionate justice) together. The “normalcy” we strive to achieve is one where a person can walk into our temple and, not finding the affinity group that might tell them that their particular need is cared for, finds a spiritual home where Jewish men, women and children of differing stripes (including such political differences as democrat and republican, gun control advocates and gun owners) all coexist in an authentic and holistic manner.

These are three examples of the kind of work I labor at every day. I know that there are crucial legal and political challenges that need to be met. I support them and encourage others to do so. But so much of life happens in the normal, everyday. If each of us were to carefully govern “the little things” – the words we speak to friends and acquaintances, the modest actions that can mean the world to someone else – the cumulative consequences would be world-changing.

I watched a beautifully tragic film recently entitled, “Any Day Now.” It takes place in the 1970s and involves a gay couple trying to adopt an abused and abandoned child. In that world – a world not far removed from the one in which you and I now live our lives – such an effort was not often, if ever, rewarded with success. During LGBT Pride Month, I am so grateful to know that the world is changing. Little by little, if we each do our part, whether quietly or in loud protest, we just might build a world whose doors are open wide for all of us.

Billy

Woody Allen once said, “In California, they don’t throw their garbage away. They make it into TV shows.”

While much of television really is mindless drivel, we certainly love it. It’d be good to limit how much we watch, lest our brains melt into Velveeta Cheese, but even I love to occasionally relax and enjoy the view.

There are those who say that watching television cuts us off from human contact which, while that can be true, doesn’t have to be. I can tell you that the television set is where my son Aiden and I find common interest and time together. And, of course, documentaries can teach us about our world and inspire us to join with others and work to better life for ourselves and for others.

1990. Dave calls his mom, but reaches Sid Tuchman instead.

Tonight, however, I have in mind Late Night with David Letterman which, after 33 years on the air, played for the last time on May 20. That was a good episode but not the one I want to talk about.

On July 31, 1990, almost twenty-five years ago, Dave picked up the phone to call his mom during the show, which he did from time to time. But on this particular occasion, Dave dialed the wrong number. Who he got became one of the funniest Letterman bits ever. And to this day, many believe the whole thing was staged. I have information to the contrary. But first, here’s Dave, trying to call his mom, and getting Sid Tuchman instead:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HZ2cAuSj-2Q

So Dave’s mom knew Sid Tuchman. Why? Because Sid Tuchman owns a network of dry cleaners all over Indianapolis. Lots of people knew Sid Tuchman, including Dave’s mom.

But guess what? I knew him too! After all, I grew up in Cincinnati. Indianapolis wasn’t far from where I lived. And guess what else? In high school, I dated Sid Tuchman’s daughter. Well, I’m not sure you’d call it dating. It was a summer camp romance. For one summer, back in the mid-70s, at the URJ Goldman Camp outside of Indianapolis, Sid’s daughter, Kathy, swept me off my besandaled feet and my heart was hers. Truth is, and I hope Ellen won’t poison my food for this, part of my heart still is hers. First big romance ever – that one kind of never fully goes away. She and I have remained friends across the decades and, even though she lives in California, I’m actually going to see her in just a few weeks when she’s in town for business. We’re going to share a good laugh over my recent awareness of the Letterman-Tuchman video and that I gave a sermon about it!

Well, I haven’t given the sermon yet, but here it comes now!

David Letterman’s connection with Sid Tuchman was quite the surprise to him, since he was expecting to reach his mom. I think that the sermon – the lesson for us – is that unexpected encounter offers new relationships and meanings. I believe that, like that phone call, there are points of contact between us and others that come as a complete surprise and go on to become significant in our lives. This video, a case-in-point. Such momentary intersections between ourselves and others can have myriad affects on us. They can make us laugh, make us cry, and make us wonder in amazement at the magic and the mystery of its even happening in the first place. If you’ve ever bumped into someone who you’ve not seen for the longest time, perhaps you’ve felt that surge of wonder and wizardry that accompanies such surprising encounters. And if it hearkens to something good (and mind you, I’ve also bumped into people who I wouldn’t have minded never seeing again), these moments can deepen the beauty and value of being alive and of simply going along for life’s ride.

But there are some points of contact that don’t often appear in our field of vision and experience. We only encounter them if we make the effort to do so. We have to want these points of contact and we must coax them from out of the fabric of life.

I’m speaking of what the Torah frequently makes reference to as “the orphan, the stranger and the widow,” categories which indicate people who don’t usually circulate within our sphere of living but whose welfare depends on our interest in making that happen. Exodus, chapter 23: “V’ger lo tilkhatz … you shall not oppress a stranger … v’atem y’da-tem et nefesh ha-ger … for you know the feelings of the stranger … kee gerim he-yee-tem b’eretz Mitzrayim … having yourselves been strangers in the land of Egypt.”

Extending a helping hand to others who are in need is a well-known and deeply-held value of Jewish life. But it only happens if we allow it to happen.

A Nepali man carries recovered belongings through the street in the ancient city of Bhaktapur in the Kathmandu Valley on April. 28, 2015. Nepal had a severe earthquake on April 25th. Photo by Adam Ferguson for Time

Let me give you an example. I’ve never been to Nepal. I once learned a bit about it when our former intern, Rabbi Darren Levine, told me of a trip he’d taken there. But recently, and only briefly, Nepal entered all of our lives when a devastating earthquake struck there in April. When was the last time you heard something about Nepal’s recovery from that earthquake? In point of fact, another tremor struck there just last night, but in all likelihood, even though Nepal continues to try and rebuild and bring relief to those whose lives were upended, you and I have little connection to the people there, no point of contact, and so, “Out of sight, out of mind.”

However, temple member and recent high school graduate Melissa Wishner was in Nepal on a gap-year experience when the earthquake struck. Melissa was deeply impacted by that experience and continues to feel powerfully connected to the Nepalese people during their efforts to recover. In the hope that her experience will strengthen our connection to those people, I have invited Melissa to speak here during next Friday’s Kabbalat Shabbarbecue service.

Like the renewed connection with my friends in Indianapolis spurred on by my recent viewing of David Letterman’s misdialed phone call with Sid Tuchman, it is my hope that Melissa’s presentation will renew our connection to those who are struggling to survive in Nepal.

Right now, the people of Nepal are “the orphan, the widow and the stranger.” Perhaps they will be able to recover all by themselves, but Jewish teaching dictates that we ought not miss out on offering our assistance.

In your daf t’filah (service handout), you will find a link to a written message from Melissa. I hope you will take the time to read her note and, hopefully, reach out and help.

By the way, also in your daf t’filah is a request from our friends across the street at the First Community Church of the Nazarene. The young man who died just this week as the victim of a hit-and-run driver leaves a mom who has not been able to pay her rent without her son’s assistance. You and I are now connected to her via the beautiful Shabbat we shared with First Community Church back in May, as well as the 11:00 am church service we will share with them this very Sunday morning. I hope you will join us there for the service. I hope you will feel a line of connection and help that grieving mom.

Note to blog readers: Here’s information on how to help. Pastor Leroy Richards, at First Community Church of the Nazarene (across the street from our temple) is requesting donations to help support the family of his 23 year-old parishioner Darryl Chung, who was killed this past week in a hit-and-run incident. Darryl was helping his mother with her monthly rent who now also needs help with funeral expenses. Contributions may be sent to: “First Community Church,” 2101 Saw Mill River Road, White Plains, NY 10607. Please add “Darryl Chung Fund” in the memo area. Thanks!

The world is truly a remarkable place. While coincidence happen often, our brains seem to be hard-wired to make sense of those seemingly random points of contact and to understand them as if they had needed to happen all along, as if they are messages and lessons for you and for me. Even if they really were just coincidence, it is to humankind’s great credit that we want those connections to be real and meaningful, that we want to have purpose-filled relationships with others, both with people we know well and with those whose very existence is only made known to us through those coincidental points of contact.

Sid Tuchman’s accidental appearance on Late Night with David Letterman was pure fun and was never meant to nurture anything of consequence. Yet, here we are. Because of Sid, we have the opportunity to help out “the orphan, the widow and the stranger” — clear across the globe, and just across the street.

Ken y’hee ratzon … may God be privileged to witness the points of contact that you and I nurture and, through them, bring increased goodness and love into the world.

*     *     *

Closing Prayer
A poor man appeared at the door to Rabbi Shmelke’s home. Rabbi Shmuel Shmelke HaLevi Horowitz of Nikolsburg lived in 18th century Morvia, known to us today as the Czech Republic. The man asked for assistance but Rabbi Shmelke could find no money in his house. So instead, the rabbi took a ring off his finger and gave it to the man, who thanked Rabbi Shmelke and went away.

Telling his wife what he had done, she bemoaned her husband’s having given away so valuable a piece of jewelry. Rabbi Shmelke then had the poor man brought back to him. Upon the man’s return, he said, “I have learned that the ring I gave you is of great value. Be careful not to sell it for too little money.”

Elohenu v’elohei avoteynu v’imoteynu … dear God and God of our ancestors … we never know who’s going to appear at the doorway of our life. Whenever a new point of contact is established with another human soul, may we ever be ready to respond with openness, interest and, if needed, generosity of spirit and being. Thank You, God, for the magnificent privilege of living in a universe where such surprises can happen … at any time.

Shabbat shalom!

One of the last books Jonah read before his death in 2009 was Tim O’Brien’s The Things They Carried, about the author’s experiences as a U.S. soldier in Vietnam. I have wanted, and I recently found time, to read it. The book speaks not only of the horrors of war, about death on both sides in the conflict, but also about friendship in the trenches, girlfriends waiting back home, the struggle for normalcy after the war, and O’Brien’s bringing his daughter with him back to Vietnam to revisit his memories and to see that war-torn land at peace. The stories, which O’Brien readily admits are some combination of fact and fiction, transported me alongside the author as he recalled his Vietnam War years. Today, Vietnam is at peace, with 90 million citizens, a communist government, and an economic growth rate among the highest in the world. It also demonstrates an abysmal record in healthcare and gender equality. A fair record for a country that lived in a state of war from 1946 until 1975.

On this Memorial Day weekend, it’s appropriate for us not only to honor those who have died in the defense of our nation, but also to reflect on the state of war in our world today. You’d think humanity would have had enough of violence and death but, of course, it’s as if there’s an insatiable thirst for destruction in the human genome.

The hotspots of military insurgency this year include Afghanistan, Syria, Iraq, Boko Haram in Africa, Sudan, Ukraine and, of course, the continuing unrest in Gaza and the West Bank. As for American involvement in war today, depending on how you look at it, says one writer, we’re either involved in no wars (after all, Congress hasn’t declared one since 1942), five wars (Iraq, Afghanistan, Pakistan, Somalia and Yemen … where we either have boots on the ground or drones in the air), or 134 wars (I won’t list them all but these are places where U.S. military forces are either involved in combat, special missions, or the advising and training of foreign forces).

And it gets me wondering. When will humankind finally rise above this insane use of might to get what we want in life? When will we finally agree to work out our differences by using our words like mom and dad always taught us?

I know, I know. Probably not for a long, long time … if ever. I searched the internet for articles on violence in the world today. I love that I found these three titles: First, “Is Society Becoming More and More Violent?” Second, “Why the World Is Becoming More Violent.” And third, “World Is Becoming Less Violent.” I suppose, like the definition of American military involvement, it all depends how you view things.

Harvard psychologist Steven Pinker, in his book, The Better Angels of Our Nature: Why Violence Has Declined, asserts the following based on peer-reviewed studies using examinations of graveyards, surveys and historical records:

1) The number of people killed in battle has dropped 1000-fold over the centuries. Before there were organized countries, more than 500 out of every 100,000 people died in battle. By the 19th century, that number had fallen to 70 of every 100,000. In the 20th century, even with two world wars and a few genocides, the number dropped to 60. And now, in the 21st century, battlefield deaths are down to 3/10 of a person per 100,000.

2) In 1942, the rate of genocide deaths across the world was 1400 times higher than it is today.

3) In 1946, there were fewer than 20 democracies in the world. Today, there are 115 nations with significant elements of democracy in them.

Pinker’s opinion is that one of the main reasons for the drop in violence is that we are smarter. Intelligence, he thinks, translates into a kinder, gentler world. I like his thinking. I don’t know if he’s right. But I’m all for more education.

So, that’s pretty encouraging. Sounds a lot better than what the news media shares with us, doesn’t it? If we listen to them, the world is at death’s door.

Question is, how do we – “we” being the human race – make it the rest of the way? How do we (can we) reach that age-old Jewish dream that we intone every time we sing Bayom Hahu … “On that day, God shall be One and God’s name shall be One”? How do we build a world at peace?

However we get there, I don’t imagine it’ll be an easy road. On many Shabbat mornings, when introducing Sim Shalom, Cantor Jonathan likes to talk about how we already know how to make peace. We just have to live with kindness, generosity and compassion as part of our daily routine.

It’s a simple recipe, really. What’s not so simple, I’m afraid, is obtaining the ingredients.

Leonard Mlodinow is a physicist who recently published an op-ed in the New York Times, entitled “It Is, in Fact, Rocket Science.” He was trying to correct misinformation about some of the world’s great scientific advances, explaining that things are rarely as simple as our most popular stories claim they are. Darwin, he writes, did not simply develop the theory of evolution while studying finches in the Galapagos Islands. Such a world-altering revelation would not be made public for many, many more years, including eight years spent writing a 684-page treatise on barnacles. On the Origin of Species, his magnum opus on evolution, would not be published until 1859, twenty-eight years after he met those finches. Similarly, Sir Isaac Newton would not discover gravity when an apple fell on his head. The truth is that while Newton theorized the existence of gravity when he was only 24 years old, he would not fully develop and publicly share his ideas until the printing of his book Principia when he was 71 years old.

Important stuff can take a very long time to complete. So while I can, and will, envision a world when all humanity finally commits to living together in peace, I suspect, like anything truly good and important, it’ll take a long while for us to get there.

This past Wednesday evening, in my words to those gathered for our congregation’s Annual Meeting, I said, “No matter what craziness life throws our way, let us together meet in the heights and in the depths, honoring our best selves, honoring one another, and honoring the Creator of all of it, whose most fervent prayer, I wholeheartedly believe, is that we just be good to each other.” I suspect that peace won’t come until the world’s religions all subscribe to this theological idea, and the atheists among us agree that the spirit of it is critical for the welfare of all.

There’s a Yiddish proverb: Ven ain zelner volt gevust vos der anderer tracht … if one soldier knew what the other was thinking … volt kain krig nisht geven … there would be no war. I don’t know how long it will take but, as my ancestors did before me, I believe with perfect faith that peace will happen. The day will come when there won’t be war no more. It won’t be easy. We’ll have to work hard and long for it. But on this Memorial Day weekend, I can think of no greater way to honor our nation’s military dead than to complete the work that they began.

We’ll start by teaching the little ones. Stella Marie Ivy, will you come up here please. I’ve got something to say to you. I know, you’re only about three months old, but there’s no time to waste if we want you to become a builder of peace.

[Stella Marie Ivy babynaming]

Shabbat shalom,
Billy

Postscript: Our rabbinic intern, Jason Fenster, made a beautiful contribution to this Memorial Day service as well. You can (and should!) read it here.